Picture's Worth
by stress
Summary: They say a picture's worth a thousand words. This is a collection of oneshots and drabbles for the Newsies fandom, one thousand words or less. Featuring all genres, ratings, and characters.
1. Pulling Petals

_**Author's Note**: Yes, I'm starting some sort of new fic thing. I already have one of these for my _Inuyasha _account (user id: cursetheflame) called _Facile comme la Vie_; now I've decided on one for _Newsies_. Basically what this is is a collection of drabbles and one-shots – hopefully 1,000 words or less – written for this fandom. I needed inspiration due to sever lack of creativity and I figure this collection would be perfect. However, like always, I am willing to take requests on the nature of the drabble. So, if you want in, leave a review (please make sure to mention the work as well, if you would :P) with: who you want to feature, a brief description of any OC's, what type of genre as well as a hint to what you want the drabble to be about – be it a theme, a word, or a setting. _

_Overall, this collection will be my relief: while I'm still working away at my other fic's, I will use this to break up the monotonous of larger chapter fics. Also, I just want to see if I can write drabbles for this fandom. All of my other works are 10,000+ words. This is as much a challenge for me _just _to be able to keep them short and sweet._

_This first drabble is one I came up with on my own. I wanted an example to show everyone (NMLer's and readers alike) what further drabbles would be like. Therefore, this one is mine :) _

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**Title**: Pulling Petals

**Featuring**: Jack/Stress

**Challenge**: a word challenge – _flower_

**Word Count**: 1,130 – not bad for a first try, I'd say

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**_PULLING PETALS  
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As always, Stress was running late. She had stayed behind at the Bottle Alley Home for Girls in order to help the elderly matron, Mrs. Cook, strip the beds. Then, when she had finished, she had ran down to the distribution center with the hope that she hadn't already missed the newspaper sales.

She made it on time but only just; she had enough money to buy thirty papers but came away with only twenty. She shrugged and looked around for a familiar face. There was not one to be seen.

Tucking the stack of papers under her arm, Stress decided to head off to Central Park to sell her papers. She always found it soothing to walk amongst the flowers and the trees; it was very easy to imagine that she was far away from the Manhattan streets when she was resting atop the grassy area. Besides, it was very easy to sell papers to the Park's visitors. And, of course, she was sure to run into a bunch of her fellow newsies making the best of the selling spot.

The distance between the distribution center and Central Park was not that much and she spent the half-hour long walk wondering just where Jack had wandered off to. He usually waited for her after he bought his papers, regardless of how late she was. But he hadn't been there today.

She shook her head and, using the arm not holding her papers down at her side, she pulled her grey cap down to keep her long mahogany curls in place. He must have a good reason to have run off without her. _He probably just went and sold the morning edition with Dave today_, she thought. _I'll meet up with him later to sell the evening version of the _World She nodded and accepted her own fabrications as truth; what other reason could there be? Temporarily appeased, she turned her thoughts to more pressing matters, like what was she going to do for dinner that night. _Twenty papes mean an empty stomach if I want a roof over my head tonight_…

When she arrived at the Park, Stress pasted a grin onto her tanned face, urging herself not to worry about things she couldn't control. After all, it wouldn't be the first time she went hungry – and it wouldn't be the last. _But, who knows, maybe I can charm some customers and get an extra nickel_, she thought and approached the first people she encountered. It was a young couple in their early twenties, neat and well-dressed, sitting on a nearby bench and looking very pleased at each other's company.

She interrupted their private whispers with a polite cough. "Would you care to buy a paper today?" She coughed again, and made it sound all the more pathetic the second time. The young man seemed inconvenienced but his companion wore a pitiful expression. She reached for her purse but the man stayed her hand. "Here, my darling," he said and handed her a penny. She took it with a thankful smile and turned to offer it to Stress.

Stress took it and tried to do a curtsy. She nearly toppled over at the awkwardness of the gesture but felt she couldn't leave them without showing that she wasn't deserving of pity. She just wanted their money. She separated a single paper from her stack and handed it to the girl. "Thank ya, miss," she added before starting to walk away.

As she made her way deeper into the quiet of the Park, she thought of the way the man treated his companion. Without a second thought he gave up his penny so that she wouldn't have to. _Now, why doesn't Jack do that for me? _The answer to that was simple enough; he just didn't have it to spare.

Her thoughts were interrupted when she spied a single flower growing amongst the grass. It wasn't, by far, the only plant amongst the sea of green, but it's white and yellow coloring stood out against the field of dandelions and other weeds. It was a daisy.

Of all the flowers in existence, Stress had always adored the daisy most of all. It was a simple flower and seemed to wave in the brief summer breeze. She reached out and plucked it easily. It was beautiful.

She placed her stack of nineteen papers down and sat upon them. Twirling the stem of the flower between her fingers, she remembered something she had seen her mother do when she was still a small child. The daisy, her mother explained, was a magic flower. It told you when someone loved you even when you did not know yourself.

She had never had need to trust in the daisy's magic before. Maybe she would use it now. Lazily, she pulled at the first petal of the daisy. "He loves me…"

Then the second. "He loves me not…"

And, in that way, she continued until there were only three petals left. "He loves me…"

"Stress?"

Surprised, she glanced up. Jack was there.

"What the hell are you doing down there?" He walked over to her and, stretching out his hand, he offered to help her to her feet.

Still clutching her daisy, she accepted his help and stood beside him. He bent down and retrieved her papers and added them to his own stack, one that was much smaller than hers. While she had been playing in the Park, he had actually been selling.

"Nothing, Cowboy," she answered, sullenly. She didn't need to pull the remaining petals. She knew the answer by his attitude already.

Jack shook his head but lost the annoyed expression. Instead he smiled. "Come on. Let's go get something to eat. We'll sell the rest of these on the way back."

She started to protest. As it was, she had only sold one paper that day – and only had nineteen left to sell. How could she afford any sort of lunch that day?

He held up his hands before careful slinging one around her shoulder. "Don't worry, Stress. My treat."

Blushing slightly, she allowed his arm to remain there as they began to walk out of the Park. As they walked, and Jack explained how he had gotten an early start to the day in order to sell all the more papers and how he had found her lazing about because Race had spied her walking towards the Park, Stress adopted a genuine smile on her face.

She still held that daisy in her hand, the last three petals still clinging on dearly. With a laugh, that Jack looked at her questioningly for, she tossed it behind her. She didn't need to pull the remaining petals.

She already knew the answer.


	2. Phantom Lovers

_**Author's Note**: What a lovely reaction to the first drabble – as well as more requests. I like requests. Requests will make _Picture's Worth _grow very large. And, look, I'm actually getting close to my self-imposed 1,000 word limit :)_

_This next drabble was written for Hair (of the NML). She wanted a romantic/dramatic/humorous drabble featuring Blink and an OC of her own design; for the challenge, she chose "somewhat challenging": "Just give Blink his Saturday night that he so desperately wants". _

_So, did I rise up to the challenge? Let me know in a review hint, hint, nudge, nudge_

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**Title**: Phantom Lovers

**Featuring**: Kid Blink/Marguerite Strong

**Challenge**: a summary challenge – _Blink and his Saturday night with the Mayor's daughter_

**Word Count**: 1,012 – I'm getting there

**Written For**: Hair

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**_PHANTOM LOVERS  
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The first time he saw her he was sitting across the way from Mayor William Strong's manor home. He found he liked the quiet that surrounded the estate; as long as he stayed a street's distance away, the police didn't charge him with loitering. Whenever he could sneak away from the boys down at the lodging house, whenever they didn't notice that the boy with the patch was missing, Kid Blink walked across the city to spend his Saturday evenings with his phantom lover: the Mayor's daughter.

He had, of course, never met the famed daughter. Miss Strong spent much of the year at a prim and proper boarding school out of New York. But, ever since the passing of Mrs. Strong, the girl was spending much more time at home with her busy father. It was those brief glimpses of a tall and slender figure silhouetted against her window that brought Blink back to his designated street corner. This was the closest to her he would ever get.

It was on that same corner that he met her. _A phantom lover like no other…_

He had glimpsed her hurrying down the street and, for once, he was able to tear his eyes away from the stately building. _She's beautiful_, he thought as he took her in. His one good eye followed her and he saw that she was as tall and slender as his dream girl. She had long brown hair that swayed with ever feverish step and he fought the temptation to rush over to her and run his dirty hands through it. _It looks so soft…_

Remembering his manners, he jumped to his feet and removed his brown newsboy cap as she passed. Her deep blue eyes fell on him for a moment and he could have sworn a dainty smile crossed her lips before she was gone.

He continued to watch the Mayor's house every Saturday that he could just like before. The only difference now was this: Kid Blink was searching for his new phantom lover – the mystery girl with the smile. He had seen her there before; he would continue to return to the same spot until he saw her again.

The next time he saw her she was walking at a slower pace. He saw her approaching a block away and was prepared when she passed him. He had removed his cap and had patted his dirty-blonde hair down in an attempt to look much more kempt. This time, before she continue on her way, she smiled and spoke to him. "Evening."

That one word was magic and he almost was caught off-guard that she would actually speak to him. He recovered, though, and before she get far enough away, he called out to her, "What's yer name?"

"Marguerite."

_Marguerite_. The entire way back to Duane Street he practiced saying her name. _Marguerite. _A name like that just rolled right off of his tongue.

He was now finding that every Saturday he was making excuses in order to be waiting on his corner. He had seen her twice more since then and had learned that she lived with her father and was from Manhattan. She always answered his questions quickly before hurrying away with a silly grin on her face.

The next time he saw her she was waiting for him on his corner. She kept turning around nervously but grinned when she saw him approach.

Blink could not believe his luck. He hurriedly removed his cap and lowered his gaze. "Evenin', Marguerite."

"Evening." Her voice was just as magical then as it was the first time she spoke to him.

It was quiet for a moment before he dared a glance up. She still appeared nervous but happy nonetheless. He took heart in her appearance and, without thinking, asked her to dinner. "I mean, if you ain't got nothing better to do," he added quickly, waiting for the inevitable decline of his invitation.

But she didn't decline. "I'd love to…Blink," she answered, resuming her dainty smile as she said his now. He was grinning now. He had introduced himself at their third meeting – he felt she was at a disadvantage what with him knowing her name and her not knowing his – but she had yet to address him with the nickname. "But first…"

His heart sank. He should have known better. _Phantom lovers are made that way… _"Yeah, Marguerite?"

Her nervousness came back and she glanced behind her so that she was looking at the Mayor's mansion. "I feel like I should tell you – It didn't seem right for me to not… My name – my name is Marguerite Strong." She looked back at him expectantly. Obviously this brief statement was what was causing her to be so nervous.

_Marguerite… Strong. _It took a moment for her confession to make any sort of sense to him. But, when it did, he had only one thing to say.

"Well look at that. I guess I got a whole mess of Saturday nights with the Mayor's daughter an' I just didn't know it," he said, trying to hold back a laugh. And failing. He started to laugh with Marguerite hesitantly joining in.

When he stopped, she looked at him briefly. "So, it doesn't mean anything to you that my father's the Mayor?"

"Not at all," he replied. "Does it matter that I'm a newsie?"

She blushed slightly and ducked her head. "I saw you watching across the street when I was upstairs. Ever Saturday, you were there and I found it intriguing. When Father was busy, I would sneak out and walk the block to see how close I could get to a real Manhattan newsie. I never thought you'd be so nice. Or," she said, looking up shyly, "that I'd like one so much."

_Phantom lovers be damned,_ he thought and reached out to take her hand. She extended her smooth one and he began to lead Marguerite down the street in order to begin their evening out. _It's much better to have the real thing._


	3. So There

_**Author's Note**: A little bit over the word limit again, but at least it's in the 1,000 word range, no? And, again, thank you for all the wonderful reviews. Fluff is fun. I love having an excuse to write some._

_This next drabble was written for Cheatah (of the NML). She wanted a romantic/dramatic/angsty drabble featuring Spot Conlon and an OC of her own design; for the challenge, she chose "challenging", providing me with a few lines of dialogue to incorporate in the piece._

_Enjoy._

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**Title**: So There

**Featuring**: Jack Kelly, Cheatah & Spot Conlon/Cheatah

**Challenge**: a dialogue challenge :

_"Jack, he's back"_

_"Who?"_

_"Patrick. My brother."_

_"Does Spot know?"_

_"No...Spot doesn't exactly..."_

_"Doesn't what?"_

_"He doesn't know I have a brother."_

**Word Count**: 1,078

**Written For**: Cheatah

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**_SO THERE  
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"Jack, he's back"

"Who?"

"Patrick. My brother."

"Does Spot know?"

"No...Spot doesn't exactly..."

"Doesn't what?"

"He doesn't know I have a brother."

Jack Kelly eyed the girl in front of him warily. She was nervously twirling a piece of her long, red hair around her fingers. Her green eyes, darker than normal due to her evident anxiety, avoided meeting his gaze. "Damn it, Cheatah. Are you tellin' me that you never told Spot about your brother?"

She shrugged and leaned up against the old Horace Greeley statue. "Of course, Cowboy. What do you expect me to do? Walk up to Spot Conlon and tell him that he's dating the sister of the Bronx leader? Right…"

Using his hands, he rubbed his face. "Well, ya gotta tell him now."

A short laugh erupted from her thin frame and her eyes lit up. "Yeah, sure," she replied, positive that Jack was joking. But, when he didn't laugh with her, she straightened up. "C'mon, Jack. You know I can't do that. Spot'll kill me."

It was Jack's turn to shrug. _Cheatah_ _gets into way too much trouble and I just don't know how she does it,_ he thought and shook his head. "What will he do if he finds out from your brother?"

Slowly she nodded. _Jack's right, damn it,_ she swore inwardly. She would have to tell Spot. If Patrick made good on his promise – _and he would_ – he was coming around to see her. How quickly would information like that take to get to the Brooklyn newsie? "I'll head over to Brooklyn today. I better see Spot before Patrick sees him."

Jack removed a cigarette from his vest pocket and stuck it in his mouth. As he reached for his match, he looked over at her. "Say, Cheatah, do you want me to come with you? Make sure Spot takes the news well and all?"

She shook her head. "That's alright, Jack. I think I can handle Spot myself," she added, with a small smirk. She'd been Spot Conlon's girl for awhile now; if there was anyone who knew how to handle the famed Conlon, it was Cheatah.

He struck the match but, before lighting the tip of the cigarette, looked slyly back at Cheatah. "You ain't gonna tell him that I knew about Patrick, right?"

"Of course not," she snorted. "You want him to be after both our heads?"

With a small smile, Jack lit the cigarette and brought the burning match to his mouth. "Not at all," he replied and blew the flickering flame out. "Not at all."

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Cheatah took the long way back to Brooklyn that night; while the journey across the two boroughs took half a day when one was hurrying, She didn't arrive until it was just about lights out. She slowly approached the Brooklyn Lodging House.

Spot was standing up at the edge of a circle, watching an on-going poker game while nodding approvingly. Cheatah slipped in quietly and wrapped her arms around his tiny waist. "Guess who?"

Spot froze and placed his hands on her hers. "Mary?" he asked with a smile, his cyan eyes lighting up. Cheatah hated to be baited like that.

She quickly pulled her hands out from under his and moved away. "Mary!"

He laughed and turned around to face her. "Cheatah, even better," he replied, his smile growing wider. He leaned in an planted a kiss on her cheek. Of course, he had been aiming for her lips, but she made a great show of turning away from him. She knew from his grin that he was kidding; she hated it when he joked with her like that.

"Ah, c'mon, I was kidding." He adopted a more sincere expression and reached for her hand. She sighed and gave it to him. The other boys in the room, used to their strange behavior, remained focused on their poker game.

Spot pulled on her hand until he had wrapped her up in an embrace. "So, what do I owe for this pleasant surprise? I thought you weren't gonna be able to come back to Brooklyn until this weekend."

Under the intense scrutiny of his beautiful eyes, Cheatah grew uncomfortable. It wasn't that she was that afraid of what he might do if she told him that she was related to Patrick; she was more nervous at how he would deal with the fact that she kept that information from him for so long. "Well, ya see, I was talking to Jack today and—"

"Cowboy?" he interrupted. He loosened his hold on her and stepped away so that he could look at her in the face. "What were you and him talking about?"

"Nothing," she said hurriedly. Spot always seemed to think that she was flirting with Jack; she had given up on trying to convince him that she and Jack were just friends. "But—"

"But? I don't want to hear a 'but'. What were you flirtin' with him about this time?"

She looked at him and, in his face, saw the beginning of a long fight. Whenever she saw that same jealous expression, she knew one of them was going to end up hurt. She threw her hands up. It wasn't wroth it today. "Forget it, Spot."

Spot grabbed one of her hands. "No, Cheatah. I ain't gonna forget nothin—"

But he had taken a step to far. She wrenched her hand back and whirled around, hurrying out of the lodging house. She couldn't stand to be around Spot when he was in a mood like this.

"Cheatah, get back here. You know it ain't smart for a girl to walk around Brooklyn at night," Spot said, appearing in the doorway but, stubbornly, not hurrying after her.

She spun around and glared at him, her eyes indiscernible in the dark of night. "Bully on you, Conlon. Don't you dare try to tell me what to do," she hollered back. She glared at him for a moment before turning away. _That stupid Spot Conlon_, she fumed, _I come all the way here to see him and what does he do? Accuse me of flirting with Jack Kelly!_ She stared ahead and stomped away. She didn't know where she was going but she knew she wasn't going to see Spot Conlon again until he apologized. _So there…_

It wasn't until she had gotten a mile away that she realized that she had never told Spot about Patrick.


	4. The Rose

_**Author's Note**: And I finally did it. Less than 1,000 words. I rock._

_This next drabble was written for Illusion (of the NML). She wanted a drabble featuring her OC, Illusion, and Spot Conlon. I tried to veer away from fluff, per her request, and focus on the OC's history that she provided me. It took me a little bit to get this out because I tried to research this before I did. The whole idea of _the rose on the chest _came straight from wikipedia research; according to wikipedia, the rose on the chest is an initiation tattoo for the Russian Mafia. I'm not sure if this practice was followed in 1899, but I figured it works for the drabble's purpose._

_Enjoy._

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**Title**: The Rose

**Featuring**: Spot Conlon/Illusion

**Challenge**: a theme challenge: _skeletons in the closet_

**Word Count**: 834

**Written For**: Illusion

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_**THE ROSE  
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_Someone is following me_. With the sudden alertness that accompanies a rational fear, Illusion knew that she was being followed. She quickened her pace and hurried towards the Brooklyn docks. She would feel a lot better once she was on her home turf.

After she walked another few blocks and the sensation that she was being followed did not lessen, she dared a glance behind her. Her sharp, icy blue eyes scanned the area quickly but she saw nothing out of the ordinary. She turned her head back swiftly; her long chestnut hair, pulled back in a simple braid, rested on her shoulder. She resumed her pace. She was almost home.

It was when the docks were finally in sight that she spun around again. The feeling that she was being chased had intensified. This time, when she searched behind her, she was justified. There, a few yards behind here, stood a young man. He was tall yet stocky; his clothes were new and expensively tailored. He wore a hat on top of his round head so that she could not recognize him. However, he stopped when she glared back at him. He wasn't worried that she had spied him.

There was a moment when Illusion just stared at the man. _He's intimidating_, she thought and tried to will her legs to move. But they wouldn't. Not yet.

The man lowered his gaze, making even more sure that she could not identify him, before slowly beginning to open the first set of buttons on his shirt. Illusion began to shake slightly; when the top half of the shirt was undone, a simple tattoo was revealed on his chest. The blue ink mingled around the red center. It was a rose.

Even though she was too far to see the details of the tattoo, Illusion recognized it at once. After all, growing up within the inner circle of the Russian Mafia, she had seen the initiation tattoo more times than she cared to remember. _The rose on the chest_.

Her curiosity satisfied, Illusion knew she had to get away. The man made no other move besides showing of his tattoo. He was the lowest sort of enforcer. It was his job to let her know that he had found her. He could do nothing more than that. She was safe, for the moment. So, instead of staring at her opponent, she turned again.

This time she ran. And she didn't stop until she reached the edge of the Brooklyn docks.

- - -

Spot Conlon was standing on his docks, overlooking his river, when he spied Illusion running towards him. He climbed down from his perch and crossed his arms. Though he exuded a strong façade, inside he was rather nervous. He knew Illusion; before they made it official a few weeks back, they had been friends for quite some time. Though the fair skinned girl, with her slight Eastern accent, kept much about herself hidden, Spot knew as much about as she would allow. And Illusion didn't hurry about as if she was afraid.

She didn't stop her run until she was a few steps away from him. She slowed to a walk then, and continued until she was standing next to him. "Hey," she said, trying to bring a smile to her face. She failed, and appeared as somber as normal, though with a hint of the fear that had plagued her most of the morning.

"Hey," he replied uncertainly. Then, because he was sure that Illusion wasn't going to say anything more than that, he reached out and pulled on her braid. "Interesting morning, Illusion? Have fun selling?"

Illusion began to nod but found that she was still too rattled to even try to look past what had happened. _They finally caught up with me_, she thought. She had been hiding from her family for too long now; she couldn't accept that they had found her. She steadied her head and looked over at Spot. The boy, just a bit shorter than she, was abandoning his normally cool exterior; his cyan eyes showed concern for her. He knew something was up.

Losing herself in his eyes, she tried to forget the image of the rose of the chest. She couldn't. And she would never tell Spot about it. She couldn't. She tried nodding again. This time her head obeyed and she felt it bob up and down. "I'm good, Spot," she said. "Just couldn't wait to get back to the docks, y'know."

He nodded, though he didn't believe a word she said, then shrugged. "Good," he answered and casually slung his arm around her shoulder. She would tell him when she could. Until then he would just wait. After all, if anyone knew about keeping things hidden, it was Spot. He had his own skeletons to hide.

Illusion held onto his arm, taking comfort in the weight it provided. The rose may still be out there, but for now she was safe.


	5. Pretenses

_**Author's Note**: I'm getting much better at keeping these short and sweet. As my initial aim was to create brief vignettes based on challenges, I always wanted to keep these short. I'm finally getting there :) I also want to add that if anyone here is interested in writing drabbles of their own based on a theme challenge, please check out my author profile for information on a new site._

_This next drabble was written for one of my favorite people, the infamous Rae Kelly. She wanted a drabble featuring her OC, Rae, and Spot Conlon. Because she is such a darling, Rae gave me a lot of room for exploring her chosen theme: the love/hate relationship that exists between Rae and Spot. Because I wanted to interpret it as such, I created a piece based on the old "I love you, I hate you" type cliché, where it's not him she hates really, but herself for loving him. Let's see how it turned out._

_Enjoy._

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**Title**: Pretenses

**Featuring**: Spot Conlon/Rae Kelly

**Challenge**: a theme challenge: _love/hate relationship_

**Word Count**: 676

**Written For**: my Rae-zin

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_**PRETENSES  
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"I can't love you, Spot," she said simply and then she was gone. Her long flaxen braid trailed behind in her haste to create distance between herself and the confused Brooklyn newsie. She left him behind on the bridge he held so much stock on; she raced across as fast as she could go. He didn't follow. He just placed his hands inside his trademark red suspenders and began to walk back to the docks.

- - -

It was two weeks before Rae Kelly dared to even set foot back into Brooklyn. She knew exactly where she would find Spot and purposely avoided the old docks at first. But she also knew she couldn't hide from him forever; he would surely have heard word of her return from any one of the "birds" he kept scattered throughout the area. If there was one thing she could say in favor of Spot Conlon, he was efficient.

It was just about that time of day when many of the boys were finishing up their evening selling when she finally found herself facing the docks. And there he was. A single speck at the end, overlooking the waves of the East River. She took a deep breath and walked forward.

Without even turning around to see her coming towards him, Spot knew she was there. "What are you doing here, Rae?" he asked, trying to sound indifferent. In truth, he just sounded annoyed. But that was alright; it was just the two of them standing there.

_How can I explain why I came back? _I _don't even know why I'm here_. Rae shrugged and looked up. In that instance, unguarded and unplanned, her blue eyes met his cyan ones. She was the first to turn away. _Yes, I do._

She heard Spot sigh and turn his gaze back to the water.

"Spot, I—" she began but found she had no words to follow. After the stunt she pulled two weeks ago, what right did she have to announce that she just _needed_ to be near Spot? The young leader would have her chased out of the borough before she blinked just for playing him. That wasn't the tough Rae Kelly that anyone – including herself – knew. She shook her head and sat down at the edge of the dock, swinging her legs over so that she was gazing down at the waves. _This _was the exact reason why she had to leave Brooklyn for Manhattan. It's not that she didn't love Spot – it's that she _couldn't_ love him.

Spot tensed and she knew that he had been waiting for her to finish her sentence. When she didn't, his tension made him annoyed. He moved his feet so that he was facing her, arms crossed, looking down at where she sat. "Listen, Kelly," he began roughly, speaking in that way that made you either throttle him or run for fear, "if you think you can just come and go

Rae was not intimidated and all of her doubts fled at the accusing tone Spot assumed. _How could I even think that I love such an arrogant jerk?_ She quickly drew herself to her feet and faced off against him. "Who are you to tell me what to do, Conlon?"

The pair stood facing off, neither desiring to admit defeat. That is, until Spot's face cracked into a smirk. "Now, that is the Rae Kelly I want with me," he said. "I was getting worried with that whole lovey-dovey spiel you gave me on the Bridge."

Rae opened her mouth to speak and closed it. Her fair cheeks seemed to color a faint pink. "Well… I mean…You…" she stuttered, finding it hard to believe that Spot had just been baiting her. After spending the two long weeks away, frequently debating whether she loved or hated Spot Conlon more, she returns to see that all he wanted was her to just be herself.

Spot smirked again and Rae found a tiny smile coming to her face.

No other pretenses were necessary.


	6. Sometime

_**Author's Note**: I know it has been way too long between drabbles but between Biddy's and Half-Pint's (whose should be up soon), I've been challenged too hard. Add weekly updates of _Diabo _and _A Virgin's Touch _among other stories that I've started (_Curiouser & Curiouser_) and updated (_Never Enough_), I've been tapped lately. Hopefully my inspiration juice starts running again. _

_This next drabble was written for the awesome (and patient) Biddy. She wanted a drabble featuring her OC, Rachel, Skittery and some sort of blood/death/violence type thing. The challenge was extremely open which, I think, is what gave me such a hard time with it. She wanted a drabble that had Rachel and Skitery trying to find some sort of inner peace amidst their troubled lifestyles. I took the philosophical route with this, pondering mortality in a way. Let's see how it turned out._

_Enjoy._

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**Title**: Sometime

**Featuring**: Rachel Harpen & Skittery

**Challenge**: a scenario challenge: _Skittery and Rachel attempt (and most likely fail) to find some sort of inner peace amidst the various troubles of their difficult lifestyles._

**Word Count**: 882

**Written For**: Biddy

_**SOMETIME**_

When her younger brother Danny came rushing into the cramped apartment that the Harpen family shared Rachel thought nothing of his antics. He was an excitable boy by nature and was always getting into some sort of trouble; it only followed that, in her opinion, this time his troubles had accompanied him home. She looked up from her piecework and narrowed her dark blue eyes at the young boy. As excitable as Danny could be, the noise was unnecessary and she intended to tell him as much. But that was before she saw the blood that stained his shirt.

She placed her sewing down onto the wooden floor and rose from her chair. Without saying a word, she approached her younger brother and knelt down upon her blue stockings, mussing her long grey skirt, so that she could look him in the eye. She placed a hand each on his shoulders, using her touch to calm him down.

Danny seemed to calm down slightly – as much as it was possible for a young boy – before saying three words. The three words that sent her, quietly, out of the apartment, with Danny on her heels: _Andrew's been hurt_.

- - -

When she arrived at the Newsboys' Lodging House on Duane Street – once they had left the apartment, Danny had led the way to where his brother was until she figured out they had brought Andrew to the Lodging House – she ignored the pitiful gaze that the old man behind the counter gave her. He must have know what had happened to her brother.

There were other boys hanging around the lobby, crowding the stairs, but none said a word to Rachel. It was times at these, times when one of their number was gonna disappear, that they all remember just how mortal they are. It may be Andrew Harpen today but could it be Racetrack Higgins tomorrow? Or Mush Meyers? Or Kid Blink? It was at moments such as these that the 'fine life' of a newsie seems anything but.

She saw him almost immediately. They had stuck Andrew in the bunk closest to the door and, apart from one boy who was kneeling at his bedside, they all gave him a wide berth. Almost as if whatever had happened to the young boy was catching. But can you catch a knife wound?

Rachel had a way of entering a room and announcing her presence without saying a single word. Her brown boots padding up the stairs followed by Danny's manic pace prepared the other boys for a visitor. Just as she entered the room, the dark-haired boy at the foot of Andrew's bunk looked up at her. "Rachel."

"Skittery." One of the only boys that she had encountered smart enough to hold a conversation, she and Skittery had taken many a walk around the City together, discussing life. _Have we ever discussed death, _she wondered, looking down on the ashen face of her younger brother. His eyes were closed.

She looked down and saw where he had been hurt. On his right side there was a slight blood stain, not large enough to be fatal – she hoped – but wide enough to cause some alarm.

Skittery gestured to Andrew. "Kid got in the way of some bum with a score to settle. Guy was waving a blade around all while and he nicked Andrew. I saw it and got there in time to scare the bum off. I brought him here and sent Danny out. Good job," he added when he saw Danny, panting slightly behind Rachel.

She listened to Skittery and nodded before kneeling beside the bed. Skittery took that as his cue to back away. As he got up and stood behind her, Rachel began to speak. "It's always the good ones that get it. I just don't under—"

Andrew interrupted her with a slight wheeze. He opened his eyes slightly and looked up at his elder sister. His first instinct was to apologize. "I'm sorry, Rachel. It was an accident."

Rachel shook her head and smiled a motherly smile. "Don't you think on it, Andrew. It's only a scratch – you'll be fine." Her voice retained its emotionless feel despite her words. She didn't think that the cut was as serious as the other boys though – she had seen much worse – but it was as if reality was being thrown in her face. He had gotten in the way of a vagabond with a knife and was hurt. What could happen if Skittery hadn't been there?

She had dealt with death before; her parents had left her alone to care for her siblings. But for one so young to die? She knew it happened – she wasn't ignorant. But she just hadn't thought it could happen to her brother.

Andrew nodded and closed his eyes again. His side hurt too much to do anything else.

Skittery placed a hand on her shoulder, not concerned that the ink stain would transfer to her off-white blouse. In that gruff manner that he had he tried to comfort his friend. "We all gotta die sometime, eh, Rachel?" Like always, he seemed to know what she was thinking.

And, strangely enough, it was those words that brought her some kind of closure on the incident.


End file.
